


Cain

by Fanfreluche



Series: Dresden - Montana - Berlin [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sixties, Anal Sex, Animal Death, Betrayal, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Gore, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smut, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 09:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20329249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfreluche/pseuds/Fanfreluche
Summary: Autumn of 1969, a twenty-one-year old man from East Germany has high romantic and career aspirations...





	Cain

**Author's Note:**

> This series is meant to be from Arthur's POV, but I was writing a future chapter and thought a little background fic from Dutch's POV might be nice. 
> 
> Dutch’s real name is Johannes Linden in this series.
> 
> Please forgive any historical inaccuracies, I tried to do some research but there are probably some mistakes!
> 
> Also, it's pretty dark, so be warned!
> 
> Thanks in advance for reading :)

“In the stable… eats apples and pears Katyusha… hmmm, hmm, hmm… hmm... hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmmmm…”

He smiled to feel the ticklish touch of the mare’s lips on his palm as she nibbled on bits of apple he fed her while cleaning her chestnut coat. They had practised all day, both were tired and both had done well, and both deserved a treat. While the Holsteiner’s treat consisted of a thorough grooming and a handful of apples and oats, his own was waiting for him in the loft of an unused barn. He almost got hard thinking about it.

Having finished cleaning the stall, he patted the horse’s neck affectionately and left for the barn, steps light and happy in anticipation, picking up a basket of food on the way. 

“Sasha!” He cried out before climbing the ladder. “Sashaaaaa!”

“Stop fucking yelling!” 

Accent thick as treacle and just as delicious. Sleepy blonde shock of hair popped up and even lovelier lips smiled at him. He responded in kind, with an added kiss on top of his head when he reached the platform, handing his lover the basket while walking towards the kerosene lamp to warm himself. 

“How can you sleep? It’s freezing up here…”

“Hah, you non-Russians are pussies… This is summer weather for me.” The young man grinned that charming grin of his. “Thought you were coming sooner, isn’t this your day off?”

“I was practising,” He sat down on the bedroll and looked about, picking up a half-open book to see what it was. 

“I’m starting to get jealous of Katyusha,” Sasha sat down next to him and began emptying the contents of the basket. “Isn’t dressage too bourgeois for you, comrade Lipa?”

“If it’s good enough for Kizimov, it’s good enough for me.” He accepted a bottle of beer and swatted the man’s hand away when he tried to touch his hair. “Don’t do that, you know I hate it.”

“It’s getting long.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Just don’t grow a moustache or it’ll feel like I’m sleeping with young Stalin.”

He chuckled and took the sandwich Sasha had made him. They ate in silence, watching the early evening sky through the loft opening, until it got too cold and he got up and closed it. Sasha was making a jam sandwich now, which he accepted gratefully, and his belly now full he felt his arousal returning. 

“Let me…” 

He took hold of Sasha’s jam-stained fingers, licking them clean for him, humming to feel cold fingers coming to rest on the back of his neck, massaging slowly.

“What are you today?” His lover asked. “A Hans, or a Vanya?” 

“What do you want me to be, Lyosha?”

It was rare. He usually didn’t feel comfortable letting Sasha decide their positions, but that evening he felt different, a bit more giving, a bit more vulnerable, a little bit safer, stronger. 

Kind blue eyes shone on him. Sapphire blue. _Saphire sind die Augen dein, die liebichen, die_...

“Vanya,” Came the response. “I want to fuck you tonight.”

Lyosha of the bright eyes, sunshine hair, leaps so high it almost made him believe in angels, almost. How could he say no?

He nodded. Let him lay him on the bedroll, undress him, caress him, open him up with gentle, teasing fingers. He even allowed muffled moans to spill from his mouth, around his lover’s cock as he sucked him, returning the favour, kissing and tasting his lover’s length, his lover’s sighs of pleasure almost making him come right there and then, but he didn’t, had enough willpower to resist that at least.

Not enough willpower not to wince and hold onto Lyosha’s shoulders and back when he entered him though. He was big, maybe even bigger than himself, though he would never admit it. And didn’t have to think about it either, folded in the warmth of him, penetrated by the heat of him, hot body covering his own as foreign words washed his worries away, soaked him in a melodious measure of euphoria. It was painful too, yes, he was not used to being fucked, but for him…

“You are my first love,” He whispered to him, in Dutch so he wouldn’t understand. Perhaps one day he would have the courage to tell him in a language he could. “My first and only…”

Sasha’s question was asked in Russian and it made him laugh. He ran his fingers through his hair in response, kissed him once more with added passion on his plush lips, bit him softly on the side of his neck - same place he had bitten and kissed so many times - when he sped up, closed his eyes, concentrating on listening to the ever more erratic groans. Only he had ever filled him and only he would be allowed to. 

Fuck…

They climaxed together this time. Even moments after the static current had ebbed and his walls had unclenched around Sasha’s throbbing cock, cum pooling on his bare stomach, he could still feel his lover clasping him fast in his embrace, their bodies trembling in unified ecstasy. 

He let his head rest on the pillow next to Sasha’s, brows touching as the other curled against his side, murmuring ‘Ochi Chernye’ like he had done many times before, telling him how that song was written for him and his dangerous dark eyes.

“Not sure if I should want that,” He spoke, chuckling softly, tone laced in lethargic bliss. “To be your doom…”

“You are already, kotik…” Sasha kissed his cheek and he purred in response. “Oh, I have something for you!”

Cold crept close when Sasha got up and proceeded to put a record in the old gramophone. It was an overture from an opera, that much he could tell, and was informed by his lover that it was from Wagner’s _Der Fliegende Hollander_. 

“Thought you might like it,” Sasha explained, lighting a cigarette and lying back next to him, covering them both up with a blanket. “You’re half-Dutch, aren’t you?” 

There was something sublime about the music, he surmised, taking a drag from the cigarette passed on to him. Unlike anything he had heard. So powerful, moving, as if it could express all the feelings he didn’t even know he had. But one troubling fact remained…

“You went to town?” 

“Pah, don’t give me that look!” Sasha turned his eyes away from him and took a drag from their cigarette. “I’d have died of boredom, can’t stay trapped here forever…”

“What if they see you?” He cupped Sasha’s face and tilted it towards himself so he would have to look at him. “This isn’t a joke.”

“What if they do? I’m tired of hiding all the time. Had to see some friends. They’re fed up with Zakharov too, planning to leave Dresden soon. Think it might be safe to go with them.”

“Where will you go?”

“Berlin first, then Essen. Want to work with Folkwang-Ballett, they have a new director, a Pina Bausch, she’s pretty good apparently.” 

“When do you plan on leaving?”

“Next week. Come with me?”

He would think about it, he told him. He had to remind himself to be practical, knowing how difficult that could be for him, had to think about his future prospects. He had to think of Katyusha as well, couldn’t just leave her like that, who would take care of her? He would need no more than a week to make a decision, he promised Sasha, and it was almost a week later - shy of a day - when, working in the orchard picking apples, he was visited by two gentlemen: Agent M and Agent R of the Stasi.

“Johannes Linden, pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

He didn’t smile back, but shook their hands, limp and clammy as they were, cold as fish.

“Might we have a chat?”

He followed them into a rest cabin nearby, but didn’t sit when they asked him to. As for them, Agent R remained standing next to the door, and Agent M half-sat on a table. 

Agent M: “I expect you know why we are here?”

Agent R: “It’s easier if you collaborate.”

I have been loyal to the Party’s principles, he reminded them.

Agent M: “We have files on you.”

Agent R: “We may be stationed in the so called Valley of the Clueless, but we aren’t clueless ourselves.”

He probably thought he was being funny.

Agent M: “You are a subversive.” 

It’s not criminal anymore, he reminded them.

Agent R: “No less disgusting.”

Agent M: “Or hindering for someone as ambitious as yourself. You are aiming to join the national dressage team, aren’t you? You see, we’ve been watching, all the time, we know your hopes and aspirations, your routines, where you go to eat, when you meet your ballet dancer, how you met him in the first place, that you are hiding an anti-socialist element wanted for instigating rebellion and murdering a Stasi officer…” 

With every word that left their mouths he felt his shoulders drooping a millimetre lower, and lower, and lower... His spirit followed suit by miles. They knew. They weren’t here for him. They were here for… Don’t speak his name, please, please, he wanted to shout as he heard them say it, tainting each letter with their foul tones. 

Agent R: “We’re here to give you a choice.”

Agent M: “Or even ease your burden by removing the possibility of a choice, how about that, boy?”

NO...

Agent R: “He’s a dead man anyway. It's just the question of whether you want to go down with him.”

Agent M: “Look at it like a deal we’re offering because we like you.”

No, no, no, no…

Agent R: “Tell us where he is and we’ll do the rest.”

Agent M: “He’s here isn’t he, on the farm?”

no, no...

Agent R: “You need your kneecaps intact if you want to ride.”

Agent M: “Let us decide for you.”

Agent R: “Free you of your will.”

Agent M: “Wouldn’t you like that, son?”

Agent R: “Be practical.”

Agent M: “Think of the future.”

Agent R: “Have faith in the Party.”

Agent M: “Loyalty is all that matters.”

Agent R: “He isn’t even German.”

Agent M: “You wouldn’t want to betray your country over a guest dancer, would you?”

Agent R: “Say again?”

Agent M: “Good boy. He’s a good boy, isn’t he?”

Agent R: “Knows what’s good for him.”

Agent M: “If you ever wanted a job, come to me.”

Agent R: “Would make a good Romeo agent, good-looking guy like him.”

Agent M: “That he would. Give him a napkin to wipe off the blood… Sorry about the teeth. I’ll go get the other one.”

Hours after they had left, the floor was still wet. Blood, piss, vomit, etc. He limped his way to the communal house where he slept, removed a floorboard, took out a revolver, went to the stables, emptied a bullet into Katyusha’s head, thought perhaps he should do the same to himself, but didn’t think he deserved it. So he left, the farm and Dresden.

In East Berlin he fell in with a bunch of people who dressed contrary to anything he had seen. In leathers, and slashed clothes, black all over, piercings, strangely shaped and coloured hair, like they weren’t afraid. How odd. They listened to music he had never heard. The Stones, they called one of the bands, he liked it. The one about sympathising with the devil especially, and so he tried to do the other things they liked as well, began dressing like them, got his ears pierced first, then the other parts, he liked it. That was the extent of how well he could connect with them, however. They were different. 

He also discovered he couldn’t listen to certain songs without feeling odd. One in particular: ‘The Sound of Silence’ by a duo called Simon and Garfunkel. He didn’t listen to that song again. 

Then the news spread that the Stones were going to hold a concert on top of a building in the West, so that it would be visible and audible to the Easterners. His new acquaintances were all excited, they wanted to go, so he went with them. Turned out the news was false, instead of a concert the police awaited them. They had to disperse. Run away. He ran, ran, ran and finally ended up in a second-floor apartment of a dilapidated imperialist-style building. The interior was lavishly furnished in all manners of vintage furniture. Books everywhere. Music played. 

_Oh, Caldonia..._

Sounded familiar.

_I’m so alone-ya..._

The tune.

_I wanna own ya..._

He fell to the floor.

_Won’t you be mine?_

Gathered into himself so tight tight tight tight tight, willing an imminent implosion.

_Ochi chornya..._

“Who the devil are you?”

Through bleary eyes, all he could see was a tall, thin blonde man, smartly dressed, facial features as of yet indistinguishable.

“Please, please turn that off…”

The music was turned off. He felt he could breathe again, though his body still ached all over. The man returned and offered him a handkerchief. He didn’t take it. He did take the glass of water though and drank some. The liquid slid down his throat with some difficulty.

“My name is Philip Riddles. I’m renting this flat.”

He didn’t exactly have an accent but he sounded strange.

“Are you alright?”

He shook his head in the negative. Flinched to feel a hand on his shoulder. Felt even more uncomfortable when the man offered to help him up to his feet. He could do that on his own and so he did. He accepted the handkerchief this time though, it had a funny red and white checkered pattern on it. 

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to burst into your house. I was chased by the police, had gone to see a concert.”

“Oh… Well, it happens, I guess.”

The stranger had a kind smile. Looked handsome too, in his own way. 

“Would you like to take a shower?”

The clothes he was offered after washing up were a bit on the small side. The man explained how he was an antique dealer, from America no less, had come to East Berlin officially for touristic purposes but in truth to find some good deals. 

“Here, have some coffee.”

He thought the man a fool for telling him all this, as they drank the coffee, which was great, but it was a month or so later until he found out he had been the one duped and that the man was in fact a con artist posing as an antique dealer posing as a tourist. By then they were sleeping together. 

Hosea Matthews revealed his true identity to him a week before he was due to leave East for West Berlin and onwards to the United States. He was asked to go with him to West Berlin, the conman assuring him he could smuggle him there. He had been hiding in the apartment for almost a month now and was very much in need of a change of scenery, but- 

“I don’t do relationships, Hosea, you know that.”

Eyeing the man, he took a drag from his cigar, had just recently got into the habit and quite liked it.

“Who said anything about a relationship? Keep up this behaviour and soon as we’ve crossed the border you’re on your own, you presumptuous prick…”

“Do they have McDonalds on the other side?”

“Sure. I’ll buy you a burger, and a milkshake too, if you’re a good boy.”

He growled in response. Rich coming from a man who moaned like a bitch when he fucked him. He turned his attention back to the thin poetry book spread before them on the table. Ginsberg’s _Howl_. Hosea was teaching him English.

“I’d need a new name…”

“If you like. And please do speak in English during lessons.”

“Okay, partner!” He spoke in English, a cowboy drawl too, like he’d seen on tv recently. “How do you say… someone who from Holland is?”

“Dutch?”

“Aha.” He cleared his throat. “Hello, sir. My name is Dutch… Dutch van der Linde.”

“Hmph… Pretty unique, regal almost, but could work, I guess?”

Dutch nodded. Hosea smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspirational/featured songs:
> 
> Katyusha  
Ochi Chornye  
The Flying Dutchman Overture  
Sympathy for the Devil - The Rolling Stones  
The Sound of Silence - Simon and Garfunkel  
Ochi Chornya - Wingy Manone


End file.
